LOCH FISHING.
LOCH fishing for trout is carried on for the most part amidst glorious
and romantic scenery. There is a sense of repose in the drifting boat
and the rhythmical cast. As a means of recreation and enjoyment it has
a distinct place in the affections of many of its votaries, and that
they are numbered by thousands the records of Loch Leven will amply
testify. To the overworked man, to those who are debarred from active
pedestrian exercise, this method of angling has a peculiar charm. To
the thronging multitudes of big Scottish cities (such as Glasgow, for
instance) the frequent competitions upon Loch Lomond or Loch Ard offer
a change of scene and environment that is simply invaluable, whilst
the ozone imbibed in such surroundings acts as an antidote to the
smoke-laden air to which their lungs are ordinarily subjected.
[Illustration: A DRY FLY DAY ON LOCH ARD.]
But when all is said and done, to the ardent angler it forms but a
monotonous kind of enjoyment. There is something so mechanical in the
constant casting of your collar of three or four flies on the chance
that some fish may take one of them. The row across the loch, the drift
over the same ground, repeated constantly are apt to pall. Doubtless
skill will assert itself in the long run, and every Scottish or Irish
loch has its record breakers, men who can be relied upon to hold their
own against all comers; but the novice and the bungler will often
succeed where more experienced anglers fail. Perhaps the stream angler
is too apt to work his flies to the top of the water, whilst the
novice, perforce, lets them sink; and, as a rule, the deeper you sink
your flies, within reason, and the less you play them, the better.
There is yet one more drawback to loch fishing, and that is, that you
are entirely at the mercy of the wind--or, rather, of the want of wind.
A still, glassy surface, and your boat fisherman is done. May that not
be because he is wedded to his three or four flies fished wet? Let him
try a dry fly under such circumstances; not necessarily on the ordinary
banks he is wont to fish so sedulously, but rather in the bays and
creeks and shallowing water amongst the rushes.
On one occasion, about four years ago, I was in Perthshire, on the
side of Loch Ard--that sweet loch, more beautiful in some respects
than far-famed Loch Katrine. It was in early May. A big competition
from busy Glasgow had put fourteen boats upon the loch, and some
eight-and-twenty men were ready with double-handed and single-handed
rods to measure their skill against each other. It was a lovely day,
not a ripple upon the water. Ben Lomond's tops were reflected in the
glassy mirror, so that it was hard to tell which was the original and
which the mirrored counterfeit. For some hours these boats had, with
precise and repeated regularity, drifted across the best ground without
the semblance of a rise, only to be rowed round again to follow in the
same procession. There is no doubt that their occupants were sternly
in earnest, and would leave no chance untried. A faint catspaw of a
ripple might secure a rise, or perchance a fish, but catspaws were
few and far between. Hour after hour the rods were plied with stolid
monotony, responseless and unnoticed. And, as the day wore on to noon,
the conditions remained unvaried, and the catspaws even ceased to add a
temporary and evanescent interest.
About that time--noon--I, having nothing in particular to do, took one
of the gillies with me in a boat across the loch. He was astonished to
see me take a rod, and no doubt put me down as a mad-brained Sassenach.
Nevertheless I took my little cane-built Pope rod and a box of Test
flies I happened to have with me, and we pulled up the loch and into
one of the bays at the far end. There I bade him rest on his oars, as
we were slowly drifting along the scanty rushes that grew out of the
bed of the loch. I soon saw a fish or two move--at what I could not
make out--so, taking an oar and gently using it as a paddle, I moved
along until I could locate an exact rise, and I noticed a small fly
near where the rise had been. Using the blade of my oar as a ladle I
annexed the insect, and found it to be a small green beetle. In my box
I found a small Coch-y-bondhu, which had a red tag and a peacock herl
body. My scissors soon removed the red tag, and then I fancied it might
do as a coarse representation of the Simon Pure. Having tied it on, I
cast it dry at the ring of the next rise. It was instantly taken, and
a plump ¾ lb. Loch Leven trout was soon in the net. And so it went on;
a cast here or there at the rises amidst the rushes, and in a short
hour and a quarter seven good trout had paid the penalty. We then rowed
home for luncheon, and, on inquiry, I found afterwards that the united
efforts of some twenty-eight men, all as keen as mustard, had produced
three fish.
Does not this tell a tale of lost opportunities, and of the folly of
being wedded to one style of angling? Had there been a good fresh
breeze my dry fly would have been nowhere in competition with my
eight-and-twenty friends. The best fisherman is the best all-round
fisherman, able and willing to adapt himself to the circumstances in
which he may be placed. But how little of this dry-fly work is tried
upon our numerous lochs?--not a breath of wind, no good to fish! Yet
ripples here and there are breaking the surface, showing that the fish
are feeding.
Many pleasant half-hours have I had on the same loch, after dinner,
under the rising moon, at the season when the main object of life is
the grouse shooting. On a mid-August evening, after a hot day, the
loch looks deliciously cool. Let us try our luck after dinner. We
take our rods, and put up for choice a small gold-ribbed hare's ear.
Let us get into that bay, in our boat, with our backs to the shelving
shore and the moon before us. There is a good rise. Paddle gently, but
quickly, near it; judge your distance accurately, keeping your eye on
the very centre of the now expanded rings. You pitch it accurately, and
it floats like a cork. Don't hurry to take it off--loch fish cruise
about--he may see it. I thought so; a good rise and well hooked, and
the pound Loch Leven fish merrily runs out your line. Now you've turned
him. Don't let him get under the boat. He has run past you into the
shadows, as that splash fully indicated. You can't see your line, nor
where he is. Never mind, keep his head up, and, above all things,
keep him away from the boat until he is done. He fights well, but the
contest is a very one-sided one; he cannot beat you as his brother of
the river often can, and in due course he is netted.
Now dry your fly well; or, better still, put on that other hare's ear
you have already mounted upon a point of gut. We have rather disturbed
this water; let us move a bit further up the bank. The rises are
sadly infrequent, perhaps, but a brace of good fish taken under such
circumstances is worth catching, especially as the loch is generally
considered to be an early one, and the fishing to end in June for all
practical purposes. If only you will try it, this floating fly work
will add a very great interest to your enjoyment of your lovely loch.
Perhaps I may be treating this subject somewhat too cavalierly, and
unduly emphasising my own views and predilections. Certainly I am free
to admit that I have enjoyed many pleasant days on our Scottish lochs.
One particular day stands out pre-eminently in my recollections. I was
staying at a shooting lodge near Pitlochry, and the famous Loch Broom
was within the precincts of our moor. To reach it we had a longish walk
and stiff climb, as it lies on the far side of a high, saddle-backed
line of hills. There were three boats on the loch, and one of them
belonged to my host.
I was told that it was heavily stocked with good fish, but that a
strong breeze was necessary if good results were to be obtained. In
due course a gillie and I sallied forth one morning, somewhat late
in the season, armed with rods, tackle, and flies, to see what Loch
Broom would do for us. There certainly promised to be an ample supply
of wind to start with, and, as the day wore on, it had no tendency
whatever to go down, but rather to increase unduly; and when we reached
the loch side after our six or seven mile walk, we found miniature
foam-crested billows on its surface; in fact, rather more than we had
bargained for. The boat had been merely grounded in the rushes at the
loch side, and required baling out and adjusting. Intending to lose no
time, I speedily put up my rod and my cast of three flies and placed
it in the stern of the boat in order to soak the cast, then devoting
my attention to the assistance of the gillie, who was getting the
boat in readiness. Whilst I was doing so my reel began to screech, and
I found I had hooked a good trout, my cast of flies having apparently
been dancing over the wind-swept waves. It was certainly a good augury
of what was to come. After a good deal of trouble we got our boat
launched, and, though leaking a bit, it was in a floatable state. The
wind was too high to admit of a slow drift across the little loch, but
it did not much matter.
At every cast there were rises, not at one of the flies, but often at
all three--no skill was required. The fish were rampant, and would be
hooked. In fact, the main part of the fun lay in seeing how often one
could land two fish hooked simultaneously. We only made three drifts in
all, for it is easy to be surfeited with such sport. After our third
drift was finished and the boat was hauled up again into its place we
had leisure to count the slain; they were certainly very numerous. I
somewhat reluctantly transcribe the entry in my fishing diary lest the
tale may be set down as a "fisherman's story." They amounted in all to
ninety-two, and weighed between 40 and 50 lb. It certainly was a record
day for even that prolific loch. There is yet one more entry in the
same fishing log to the effect that the 15 odd pounds weight of trout
that I personally carried home that afternoon formed a considerable
addition to the labour of the walk over the hills and against the gale,
and that I frequently wished them at Jericho.
But you might go to Loch Broom on a still day and you would be almost
inclined to declare that it was untenanted, so fickle in their
behaviour are these selfsame trout.
There is a little loch--Loch Dhu--in Forfarshire, high up in the hollow
of the hills, tenanted by many little black trout, who refuse to be
beguiled by the artificial fly. I tried it once or twice whilst grouse
shooting at Rottal, but with the poorest results. One day, very early
in the morning, I was going up the hill with my rifle and glass in the
hope of getting a stalk at a red deer before our grouse drive began.
On my way up I passed within half to three-quarters of a mile of Loch
Dhu, and happened to notice a strange turmoil on its usually unruffled
surface. Bringing my glass to bear upon it, I discovered the cause. A
swarm of bees was crossing the loch, a few inches above the surface,
and apparently every one of the little black tenants of the water was
engaged in gymnastic attempts to secure some of the bees by leaping
bodily out of the water. The constant rising of the fish followed the
swarm accurately across the loch, and only ceased when it reached terra
firma. Then all again was silence and solitude. I certainly never tried
afterwards to catch them with a solitary bee as a lure, and I fear
that it would have required a whole swarm of artificial bees to arouse
sufficiently the predatory instincts of these particular fish.
There exists in Perthshire, on Ben Venue side, snugly ensconced in a
beautiful hollow below the lower tops, a lochan, or small loch, by
name Loch Tinkler--why so called this deponent knoweth not. Round
its heather-covered sides I have shot many a grouse, and enjoyed the
great pleasure of watching favourite setters and pointers--those
delightful companions of the now somewhat old-fashioned form of grouse
shooting--point and back, with unfailing accuracy. Hither I have not
infrequently resorted with my rod for an hour or so of fishing along
its shores. The loch is very irregular in shape, and has frequent
heather-clad promontories jutting out into its waters, which permit
the angler to cover the fish more effectually, and seldom have I gone
unrewarded. Of no great size or weight, a half-pounder being perhaps
above the average, the Loch Leven trout that tenant it attain wonderful
condition and brilliancy of colouring. They play well, and I should be
more than ungrateful were I not to record the pleasant hours I have
spent there. But, after all, a small loch such as this is, commanded as
it is for all practical purposes from the shore, hardly falls under the
category of loch fishing, a branch of angling which presupposes the use
of a boat.
Owing, no doubt, to my peculiar temperament, I fear that I am not
worthy of loch fishing proper. The thraldom of being confined for long
periods in a boat, the unvarying monotony of the cast, are apt to pall
upon me; and sooner or later, or, to be strictly accurate, sooner
rather than later, I long to be ashore again, even though it be only to
fish up a small Highland burn.
And perhaps I am not quite alone in this respect, for I note that my
friend who has given us those pleasant "Autumns in Argyleshire" asserts
(p. 182) that he would prefer "indifferent sport in a river or burn to
fishing the finest loch in the Highlands." So that if I err I do so in
the very best of company.
And this same burn fishing has always had a charm for me. It is passing
pleasant to wander with a small 9 ft. rod up the rocky bed, casting
your fly into that miniature salmon pool or into that quaint stickle,
whose larger stones shelter the little denizens of the stream, which,
for their size, fight like little demons, sportive, hungry, diminutive
specimens of the race that produces their bulky Test and Itchen
brethren. One makes one's way over the rocky bed, under the birches
and the rowan trees, watching the grouse, the black game, or maybe the
roe deer silently creeping up, at peace with all the world, just as
intent upon the capture of the little fellows as if they were salmon.
The creel soon fills if the day be at all suitable. Their rocky home
affords little enough of insect food, as their miniature forms testify;
but look at them closely; how perfect their form, how beautiful their
colouring.
A sandwich and a pipe give you all you require in the way of lunch; the
whole day is your own, to do as you like with. Freed from all care, you
are intent only on enjoying to the full the beauties of Nature that
so lavishly surround you. Such quiet, gentle sport cannot but have
a purifying and ennobling influence if you interpret aright all the
beauty of creation. And it may be that interpretation is not needed; it
is enough to _feel_ that one has a place in so fair a world.
[Illustration]